Almost. Marianne thought. There was the prostitute, Elise. He’d thought she wouldn’t talk, out of desire for money and fear of him. He’d underestimated her. Of course he had. She was a woman. He whipped women. He hit women. Even with her, a woman he pretended to admire, he had not discussed marriage with her first but had gone straight to her father to settle the matter of her life between two men. Seeing him now, listening to him now, it was a wonder she’d missed the malicious evil in him. But neither she nor society had been looking for it. Elegant clothes, good manners, a strict adherence to etiquette with ballrooms for backdrops had effectively disguised the monster within. They all had only seen what they wanted to see.
She drew a shaky breath. Vennor had died to reveal the madness. Dying to reveal it or just dead because of it? There was a very large difference. Her breath caught on the idea. Had he known? Was that why he’d been adamant about the opera? Dear God, if that were true... Implications spread like ripples on a pond. Had he uncovered the connections between Hayes’s finances and the Penlericks with the dossier? If so, he’d known it was Hayes who was responsible and he’d set himself up as live bait, to draw him out. He’d known how irresistible the lure would be to a desperate, angry, vengeful Hayes: the date, the time, the place, the man. They’d both had a chance of completing their own redemption stories tonight. Now one of them lay dead, dependent on others to complete his.
I will, Vennor. Marianne promised silently.
‘Where are we going?’ Marianne ventured once he completed his tale. She strained to see out of the window, but her bonds didn’t allow more than a glimpse into the darkness. She thought, however, that they were still in town.
He grinned. ‘Somewhere we can start our future together.’
She froze at the insinuation. She’d been fixated on getting his story, on holding her grief at bay over Vennor, oddly comforted by the knowledge that she had time because Hayes did not mean to kill her—he needed her for the completion of his bloody fantasy—so she had not given much thought to the immediacy of her own situation beyond looking for an opportunity to escape. Hayes’s next words were a chilling reminder that she had her own exigency to look to.
‘I mean to have an heir with you as soon as possible.’ There was a gleam in his eye that captured her attention. ‘But we must make sure you’re not carrying Penlerick’s child. You’ve been led into wickedness with him and we must drive that wickedness out, purge you of his touch. I have taken Penlerick leavings long enough. Certainly you can understand a husband’s desire for surety, my dear? What is a little discomfort against that?’ His words made her skin crawl and her pulse race with a panic she had to hold back. ‘Ah, here we are. It’s a place called Delilah’s and she knows all about handling unwanted babies. It’s quite safe.’
He could not possibly know the boon he’d just handed her. Marianne kept a straight face as a little flicker of hope jumped for the first time since she’d been pushed into the alley. If she could manage to get a word to one of the others, they would come. She simply had to stall long enough for them to reach her. ‘You should untie me.’ She nodded towards her bound hands. ‘No one would ever believe a man would bind his fiancée.’
Or bring her to a brothel on the East Docks, but Marianne wasn’t going to mention that. She needed to be here. It was the best chance she had of rescue or, if opportunity arose, to escape on her own. She began to think: if she could get free, she’d go to Mrs Broadham’s.
Delilah spared her the briefest of sharp looks as she escorted them upstairs to a room Marianne knew well—the empty room left behind by Elise’s own escape last week. She pretended not to recognise it, but Hayes acted as if he had great familiarity. ‘This will do fine, for the night,’ Hayes pressed money into the madam’s hand. ‘There is another matter of some delicacy my fiancée and I need help with. I would like to discuss it with you and make arrangements downstairs after I see her settled.’
Delilah’s gaze moved between them. ‘Yes, please come to my office,’ she told Hayes before her gaze landed on Marianne for a moment. ‘We are very busy tonight. It’s a Friday. Men have full pockets. It may take us some time to accommodate you, but we will do our best.’ Marianne understood. She knew what Delilah meant to do. It was well-intended but futile. Delilah would send out her hulking doormen to search the streets for the Vigilante, never knowing those efforts would be in vain because the Vigilante would not be found. He would never come again to answer the call of the downtrodden. The Vigilante was dead. Marianne swayed on her feet, the events of the evening suddenly too much, her hope too little to overcome the facts and the grief pressing against her, begging to be let out. Would Hayes catch her if she fell? She stumbled towards the bed and felt someone catch her beneath the arms—Delilah, she thought. She was eased down on the sheets. Her courage was spent and Vennor was dead, and she had been pushed to the limits of her strength. She’d not told him she loved him. Now it didn’t matter. Others would catch Hayes. Vennor’s quest would be completed. She didn’t want to wake up again. Nothing mattered because Vennor was dead.
* * *
Marianne was gone.
Vennor struggled towards consciousness, his mind a riot of thought and pain.
He had to get up, had to go after her. He had to move. Why couldn’t he move? Hayes had Marianne. Hayes had killed his parents. Hayes meant to marry Marianne, to put her beyond his reach. Hayes didn’t mean for him to live. Hayes thought he was already dead.
The thoughts raced ahead of the pain, a jumbled wave of ideas crashing into one another, but one thought was clear.
‘Marianne.’
Was that croak his voice?
‘We’re here, Ven. Don’t move. Stay still.’ It was Eaton’s voice that answered, not Marianne’s. He struggled, but someone held him firm. ‘I mean it, Ven. Don’t move.’ Eaton’s tone was firm. He was giving orders. ‘Help me sit him up, gently, now.’ He was propped up in strong arms—Eaton’s, he guessed. He forced his eyes open; the world swam and he managed it into stillness by focusing on one specific spot, a brick wall in the darkness. Sweet heavens, where were they? ‘Get a blanket,’ Eaton barked and instantly one was produced. The warmth felt good, he realised. Whatever he was lying on was wet. The street? No, the alley. He was lying in the alley. It was coming back to him in more orderly fashion now: the ambush, the guns; Marianne ripped away from him, Hayes hitting her, his own temper exploding at the act; Marianne dragged off, his own futile charge, then the pistol butt. Ah, that damned pistol butt was the cause of his pain.
He moaned and reached a hand out to grip Eaton’s arm. ‘Where’s Marianne? Did you get her?’
‘No, not yet.’ That was Inigo. He bent down beside him. ‘I have men looking. We will find her.’
‘Let me up,’ he groaned and tried to push against Eaton’s restraint.
‘No.’ Eaton insisted. ‘You have a head injury. We don’t know how severe. I’ve sent for a doctor. You are not moving until we know for sure.’ He heard Eaton’s voice shift. He was talking over his head. ‘This is why we weren’t going to tell him about Marianne right away,’ Eaton was scolding Inigo. ‘Do you want him to stand up and die?’
‘He’s entitled to the truth,’ Inigo argued. Vennor could tell from the silence that followed that Eaton disagreed. He took advantage of the moment to lever himself up a little further.
‘Tell me what happened, tell me everything. How long have I been out?’ He hoped not long. Marianne could be anywhere. Every moment they didn’t know, every moment they lingered, expanded the radius of where Hayes might go.
‘You were out for twenty minutes, maybe. The longest twenty minutes of my life, I might add.’ Eaton let out a breath. ‘We heard the shot. We’d just come out of the opera house. Cassian was looking around and he knew something was wrong, but we couldn’t find you. Then we heard the second shot and we ran towards it. You were down and Marianne was gone. We thought y
ou were dead, Vennor.’ There was an unmistakable tremble in Eaton’s voice. ‘You were so still.’
‘The men, there were two of them plus Hayes. Hayes ran with Marianne but the other two, where are they? What happened to them?’ His mind was starting to exert itself beyond the need to find Marianne.
‘We caught them. Cassian and I ran them down.’ Inigo gave a latent growl in recollection. ‘A good boot to the neck does wonder for confessions. They were happy to confess to what they’d been hired to do, although they didn’t name, couldn’t name, Hayes specifically.’
Eaton made a gesture. ‘The doctor is here.’ A black-coated man knelt beside him, gingerly moving his head, his hands running over his skull. Vennor winced.
The doctor smiled apologetically and held a set of fingers in front of his face. ‘Very good. You’ll have a lump for a bit and your head will hurt, but no real damage. You were lucky. An inch to the left and it could have been serious.’
Vennor grunted and struggled to his feet, steadying himself on Inigo’s arm. ‘Good, then we can be off.’ Somehow he would find the strength to go forward. Marianne was out there with Hayes. She was not safe.
Eaton and Inigo exchanged looks. ‘We will be off. Let us be your legs and your eyes, Ven. You need to be at home, resting. You can run headquarters.’
Vennor dusted at his ruined evening trousers. ‘I will not sit at home while Marianne is in danger. I put her in danger and I will be the one to get her out of it.’ The sound of hooves clattering on cobblestones interrupted what would have become a quarrel. The sea of people who’d gathered to gape and which had been held at bay through a combined effort from Bute and Hayle and Boscastle, parted before a broad-shouldered man leading four horses, two in each hand. Vennor squinted, his vision clearing. ‘Cassian!’
Cassian tossed a set of reins to Inigo and Eaton. ‘Can he ride?’ he asked Eaton.
‘Of course I can ride,’ Vennor answered for himself.
‘Then let’s go; my man brought word. Hayes is in the East Docks.’
The four men swung up on their mounts, wheeling them around, Vennor ignoring the pain in his head. He brought his horse up alongside Cassian’s. ‘How does your man know?’
‘Marianne sent word via the madam of the brothel he’s at.’ Cassian grimaced. ‘A place called Delilah’s? I can’t say I know it.’
‘I do.’ Vennor kicked his horse forward, relief and trepidation sending his head to throbbing. Delilah would know something was wrong if Marianne showed up in Hayes’s possession. Marianne had been smart to send word to Cassian. Then the reason for that occurred to him. His last memory was of her screaming his name. She’d heard the shot; she’d watched him fall. She was assuming he could not come for her. She had every reason to think he’d died in the alley.
Vennor took the lead, urging his horse on as fast as he dared, navigating slippery cobblestones on dark narrow streets, the others falling in behind in single file. His mind was filled with worry for Marianne, with images of what Hayes might do to her. The man’s threats had been plain enough to leave nothing to the imagination. Vennor would kill Hayes if he defiled the woman he loved in any way. Loved. He loved Marianne. He’d not told her, not in words at any rate. He should have. It might have served as some comfort to her in whatever situation she found herself in now. She would be devastated and determined not to show it and, oh, so desperate to fight. Hayes would like that. It would give him excuses to harm her.
Please don’t hurt her, he begged silently. Hold on, Marianne. I am coming.
He was coming?
It occurred to him that Hayes quite likely thought him dead. Hayes would not be expecting Vennor Penlerick. The scandal would be all over London by morning if two peers brawled in a whorehouse. There would be legal justice to be served and anything could happen on the way to trial. Hayes had killed his parents. Hayes had kidnapped Marianne. The legal system was too good for him, the process too tenuous. A peer could be acquitted of any number of crimes. His father had always disagreed with that level of immunity. All men should be equal before the law, but they weren’t. Hayes was counting on that. What he wasn’t counting on was the Vigilante, a man who understood how it was possible to serve justice beyond the law.
They sped through the streets, windows opening, people spilling out of taverns to watch the four deadly horsemen pass. Vennor felt for the mask in his pocket. This would be the last ride of the Vigilante. If he could save Marianne, if he could see justice done to Hayes, he would give up the Vigilante for good. It was the kind of promise a desperate man made, but Vennor knew he’d give up even the dukedom itself to save her.
Chapter Twenty-Four
She couldn’t save him. Vennor was dead. It was the first thing that came to her on waking. It seemed as if it had been the last and only thought she was capable of summoning. Marianne felt her mind force her towards complete consciousness. She fought it; she didn’t want it. She didn’t want to wake to a world devoid of Vennor. That world was brutish and cold, a world without hope, a world where Hayes held her in his power. Someone was pushing a glass to her lips. She turned her head away. Water splashed on her chin and dribbled down her neck. Something was wrong.
Marianne tried to raise a hand and couldn’t. She struggled, her mind suddenly registering the reason for it. She was tied. To the bed. She shifted again, there was something else wrong. She felt...lighter, somehow. There was no rustle of silk or petticoats. Panic rose. There was nothing for it. She had to wake; she had to take charge of the situation, although thinking she could take charge of anything while bound hand and foot was laughable. What control could she manage? Still, she had to try. For Vennor’s sake, she told herself. He would not want her to give up.
‘Good girl, you’re awake.’ A soft feminine voice was at her ear. She had to turn her head to see the source. Delilah. She craned her head trying to see if Hayes was in the room.
‘He’s downstairs, having a drink on the house,’ Delilah whispered, divining her thoughts. ‘May I assume you are in some danger from him? Who can I send word to? Shall I send for the Vigilante?’
Tears formed and spilled, sobs choking her. ‘The Vigilante is dead. Send word to Viscount Trevethow.’ Marianne thought rapidly. ‘He will be at the opera house if you act fast enough.’
‘I am sorry. He was a good man.’ Delilah put a hand on her shoulder. ‘I cannot untie you. But I will protect you as best I can until Trevethow can get here.’ She went to the door, cracking it open to speak in low tones to the guard posted outside. Then she returned to the bedside. ‘Word has been sent.’ She cleared her throat and sat down. ‘I am supposed to be ascertaining whether you’re with child. I will tell Hayes whatever you like. I owe him nothing. He cost me a good girl when Elise left.’ Her voice softened. ‘Are you with child?’
‘No, I don’t believe so.’ The truth was, she didn’t know. She’d not given it any thought. She and Vennor had only made complete love the once. Another wave of sorrow swept her. They would never lie together again, never lie on the low bed at the warehouse whispering their secrets, confessing their hearts, exploring one another’s bodies.
There was anger in her sorrow, anger at herself for holding back, for thinking there was something more important than Vennor, for thinking that she could not have both Vennor and her career. Now, there was only her career. She would print Hayes’s confession. She would expose him for the vengeful madman he was, even if it meant scandal for herself. She simply did not care. Hayes had destroyed two men when he’d killed Vennor: the Duke of Newlyn and the Vigilante, two men who had done so much good for so many people. How callously their light had been snuffed out. Tears ran down her face and she was helpless to wipe them away. She didn’t want to be weak. How fast would Cassian get here?
Perhaps Delilah understood her need for some modicum of privacy. The madam rose and gave her what privacy she could. ‘Your dress is on the chair. You’
re in your shift. I insisted there was no need for anything else to be removed,’ Delilah offered after a while.
‘Thank you,’ Marianne whispered. But there was a limit to what the madam could do for her.
‘Soon, Hayes will finish his drink and come upstairs,’ Delilah said. ‘What would you like me to tell him? If I tell him you’re with child, he’ll want it removed. I’ve a potion I can give you that will convince him it’s been done. It’s not pleasant, but it will buy you time. He won’t force himself on you until he’s sure.’
Marianne saw where the madam’s logic was headed. If she was not with child, Hayes would make demands of her, immediately, perhaps before Cassian could arrive. And if she was with child, or became with child, how would she ever know if the child was Vennor’s? But she could not selfishly risk the potion if there was a chance she might carry Vennor’s child. The enormity of that swept her. Might she carry the last piece of him? She had a fierce, futile urge to touch her stomach. The next Duke of Newlyn. A son. It would mean Hayes would be thwarted even as he sought to seize victory. ‘Is there another choice? I cannot win either way,’ Marianne pleaded, her eyes meeting Delilah’s.
The madam shook her head as a knock pounded on the door. Hayes entered, making it clear a knock was not a request for permission to enter, but an announcement that he had arrived. ‘How is my blushing bride?’ He stripped off his cravat and flung it aside before going to work on his cufflinks. ‘Do not mind the bonds, my dear, we needed to make sure you did no harm to yourself when you awoke from your faint.’ He shot a cheery look at Delilah. ‘What is our verdict?’
Delilah shot her a look. ‘There is no child, milord. We have no need of any further interventions.’
The Confessions of the Duke of Newlyn Page 20
